


In Good Company

by the_many_worlds_traveler



Series: In Good Company [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety, Other, Panic Attacks, self-depreciating thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_many_worlds_traveler/pseuds/the_many_worlds_traveler
Summary: Virgil Harris had no real aspirations for a professional ballet career. After years of convincing himself there was no company who would accept him, a certain director made him an offer.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first official installment of my Ballet Company au. It's far from perfect and I haven't written a fic in over ten years, but I hope you enjoy the dance nerdiness and Virgil angst as much as I do!  
Check the end notes for a glossary of terms and reference videos!
> 
> TW: Intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, anxiety, cursing.

** _Lausanne, Switzerland  
Prix de Lausanne Competition Finals_ **

Virgil was never one for overstatement. Grand displays, flourish, pop, nothing. He prefers to keep it simple. Whether it be his words, if he chooses to speak at all, or his movement. Why spend thirty seconds exerting unnecessary energy when a simple gesture would suffice. A single word. A look. The sooner it’s done, the better.  


Or rather, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can retreat to the sidelines and pretend he were anywhere else.  


Virgil Harris does not like being put on display. Practice was one thing, enclosed in a private studio, surrounded by walls, a door that closed, being around people he was at least passingly familiar with. In the studio he was safe. More importantly, his mind was quiet.  


But there he was, moments to his entrance, music swelling, lights blaring and all he wanted was to dissolve into the heavy black fabric of the wings. Or perhaps climb the rope riggings up to the catwalks to make his stealthy escape. But no, his coach was there, hand firmly clasped to Virgil’s shoulder keeping him trapped in place until his turn.  


This was not his studio or even a familiar theater. Instead he was thousands of miles from home, forced to perform in front of people who didn’t know him and didn’t care to. Those people out there were there for one purpose and one purpose alone.  


To judge him.  


The dancer on stage, a lovely, languid young woman in a dazzling white tutu, gossamer fabric floating from her arms, flitted playfully across the stage in the final moments of her solo, a selection from the 3rd act of La Bayadere, Kingdom of the Shades. The most minuscule of steps on the tips of her pointe shoes carried her effortlessly across the stage before bounding into a seamless grand jete leap, cutting through the air. The landing was perfect, utterly silent, taking a knee as if gravity were at her control allowing her to meet the ground like it were nothing at all.  


She rose to her feet, applause carrying her to center stage. The young dancer took a deep bow, pointed foot trailing behind her, one hand to her heart, the other gesturing the audience and the judges.  


_Alright, idiot. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t do it. Don’t go out there. You’ll fuck it up. You’ll fall. You’ll be a-_   


“Virgil.”  


He jerked his head away from the stage and looked to his coach, Louis Adley. Head buzzing, thoughts spiraling. “Virgil, you’re up,” Adley whispered, planting both hands on his student’s shoulders, eyeing him intently. “Ignore the voices. Breathe. You’ll be fine, kid.”  


Virgil gave a ghost of a nod and turned to step to the edge of the wings, steeling himself for what was to come.  


The applause died to a murmur, the sound of people shifting in their seats rattled in Virgil’s head, clashing with the god-awful buzzing. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped into the light.  


His selection of solo variation was an odd one, not commonly chosen for competition as it lacked the usual pomp masculine athleticism, but it suited Virgil and that was probably why it took him all the way to finals.  


The Poet’s Dance from Les Sylphides, a ballet made famous by Ana Pavlova when it premiered in 1909. It had only two characters, white ethereal woman called Sylphs and the Poet. It was a simple ballet that relied on emotion and atmosphere over plot and decadence.  


This was right up Virgil’s alley. Moody, dark, simple. It was an easy choice for him to make when the choice to compete in the first place clearly wasn’t his to make.  


Unfortunately, the atmosphere of the Prix stage was hardly befitting. Stark bright lighting, a plain brackdrop, prerecorded music set to competition-standard tempo. It felt cold under the blazing lights over his head, like an operating theater. Except he was the one being dissected. Every movement of the arms, every slight shift of his foot along the floor was recorded and boiled down to hard numbers.  


Virgil caught the eye of his coach in the wings, an eager smile on his face urging him on. The Poet’s Dance asked for a certain feminine grace as he skimmed the floor with luscious turns and pillowy jumps. When he felt his best, Virgil felt like he was floating.  


The buzzing in his head quieted and the thoughts melted away with the soothing lilt of Chopin’s score. For a moment, just one quick moment, he forgot where he was and what was at stake. Scholarships, job offers, notoriety on an international level. In that moment, none of that mattered.  


But then his eyes caught the judges table, lit by small lamps. Their eyes watched closely, glancing down quickly to jot notes on stacks of cards, each with a competitor’s name and profile. It all came screaming back, the lights, the audience, the buzzing, the damned thoughts. He pushed through, forcing himself to refocus.  


_Hold on, dammit. So fucking close._   


His foot slipped slightly under his weight, causing what Adley later described as the smallest of hiccups in what was otherwise a perfect performance.  


The music came to an end and his chest hitched in a mix of relief and panic. He swallowed, stepped to center stage and took a bow before running into the wing, remaining in character until he was far enough backstage that he could no longer see the lights.  


Virgil came to a dead stop at the door and leaned his back into the frame.  


_Breathe. Breathe. It’s over. You fucked up like you knew you would, but you made it._   


A low, choked laugh escaped his parched throat at the thought. He pitched forward, bracing his hands against his knees, willing his breath to catch up.  


It wasn’t a difficult variation, so why in the hell was he so winded.  


_Because you’re weak._   


He felt a hand rest on his back. Virgil didn’t realize his eyes had been screwed shut so tight so when he finally opened them he saw spots. But beyond that and the sting of sweat in his eyes he saw Adley, crouched down and gazing at him with a soft smile.  


“You did good, kid,” his coach assured. “Those dancers out there are impressive, but you, Virgil? You’re a goddammed artist. A regular Baryshnikov.”  


Virgil stood upright and smirked. “Man, what a cheesy line. Can we get the hell out of here now?” His coach righted himself and flung an arm around his student’s shoulders, turning them down to the holding rooms. “Yeah, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up. But you’re not allowed to leave until _after_ the awards ceremony.” Virgil gave a petulant, guttural moan and Adley only sighed, patting his young charge on the cheek before giving him a light shove down the hall.

***********

The awards ceremony was always something Virgil actively tried to miss, either by faking some sudden stomach ache or by “getting lost on the way to the bathroom”. Someone always saw through his crap, tidied his hair, and all but pushed him onstage with the rest. The endless talking, the thanking of sponsors, the judges, the audience, the tired words of “how impressed they were by what was likely the most impressive showing of young talent in competition history”. He had heard it all before and he knew exactly why anyone was standing up there waiting through it all. Those cards in the Master of Ceremonies’ hands held the fates of a select few dancers. They were their tickets to the professional world.  


Virgil didn’t care about all that. All he wanted was to get out of that sweaty costume, take a shower and sleep for a decade or two. He knew he didn’t belong with any company. No director in their right mind would want such a broody, anxious mess. Regardless, he stood there all the same, poised and “calm” with nineteen other young hopefuls all shaking   
from the raw, exhausted nerves. The gossamer girl from before his solo nearly jumped out of her skin when the first award was called.  


_Don’t get your hopes up, Virge. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get your-_

**********

“The Audience Choice Award! That’s great!”  


“Yeah, but I didn’t even place.”  


Adley, wearing a crisp navy suit, sighed and pushed a flute of champagne in Virgil’s hand. “Look, you’re walking out of this with prize money and the adoration of the audience. What more could you want?”  


“To go home,” Virgil said pointedly, scanning the room full of competitors and shoulder-rubbers. The gala. Almost worse than the awards ceremony. He took a healthy swig of his champagne, willing his chest to loosen up. Here’s hoping enough free drink will do it for him. At 18 it was more than acceptable to drink in times of celebration in Europe.  


_When in Rome_, he thought, swiping another glass from a waiter passing by.  


His focus drifted from person to person, catching pieces of stilted conversations. So many people speaking just as many languages- how anyone could carry on anything more than a simple chat was beyond him.  


Virgil leaned into a table, not caring if his brand new black suit got wrinkles. He fiddled with the purple faux silk pocket square at this chest and took another gulp out of his glass. He watched Adley talk up a judge from the panel over a tray of cheese cubes. He just couldn’t grasp the concept of small talk. He would pull out his phone, but his parents wouldn’t shell out for an international plan, so stare into space it was. His coach would tire out eventually and walk him back to the hotel. He would have gone back himself if that asshole Adley hadn’t stolen his hotel key out of his pocket when he was changing clothes only to promise to return it at the end of the night. The man had him trapped. Crafty fucker.  


He respected his coach. Hell, he even liked him. But damn it all, he was a pain in the ass.  


Virgil ran his fingers through his bangs, ensuring his shield was at full strength. No one talks to the emo kids. He patted his back pocket, feeling for his iPod. _Crap._ That was gone, too. Virgil resolved to dip Adley’s hand in a bowl of warm water after he went to sleep tonight.  


“This seat taken?”  


Virgil snapped out of his reverie to find a man no older than thirty smiling at him, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “No man, all yours,” he shrugged. But the man didn’t   
sit. He just stood there with a smirk, obviously waiting for Virgil to strike up a conversation.  


_You’re gonna be here a while, buddy. Better keep walking._   


The man chuckled lightly and stuck out his hand. “Thomas Sanders. I’m with the Civic Ballet of Florida. You must be Virgil Harris.”  


Virgil tamped down the on-coming sigh and the urge to walk away. Adley reminded him to at least be cordial, because “you never know who you could meet at these things.”  


“Yeah? Who would want to meet me?” Virgil rebutted.  


“Your future, Virgil, your future!” God, this man was a walking cheese fest.  


He eyed Sanders from beneath his bangs and let his vision fall to his waiting hand. Fine. He took it and gave one steady shake before retreating a half step back, trying not to bump into the table behind him. “Nice to meet you Thomas Sanders of the Civic Ballet of Florida.” He looked over Thomas’ shoulder to see Adley watching him with a grin, giving him a thumbs up.  


“So, uh,” Virgil started, trying to think of what to say next, “Are you a dancer with them? You seem a little old to be competing.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow.  


_Shitshitshitshit._ Adley, his parents, and countless other teachers had chided Virgil for his sharp tongue. It had gotten him into hot water enough to try and keep it quiet, but it was his last-ditch defense mechanism that always seemed to kick in when someone just refused to get a clue and leave him alone.  


He was shaken out of his panic by laughter. Thomas was nearly doubled over one moment and tossing his torso back the next with a laugh that can only be characterized as charismatic and… cartoonish? “Oooooh boy, I knew I liked you. No, I’m afraid I’m not a dancer with the company”. He took a steadying breath, righted himself, and looked Virgil in the eye, the effects of his laughter still present in his features. Everything about him was light and easy.  


_So who is this guy?_   


“Anyway, I’ve come to make you an offer. As the artistic director, I’m duty-bound to seek out new talent even if it means trekking far and wide to find it!”, he said, gesturing widely around the room with gusto.  


_Hold on. Director? ARTISTIC DIRECTOR?!_   


The buzzing came back with brute force, pressure in his skull and chest building rapidly. He just insulted the artistic fucking director. To his face! His vision swam and the feeling in his fingers was nearly gone. He needed to sit. No, he needed to get the hell out of there. Find Adley, get his key, hide in his bed until kingdom come. Where was Adley? He scanned the room and couldn’t spot him. There was no time for this.  


_Time to cut and run, Virge._   


He felt a hand resting softly on his shoulder and expected to see Adley there. Instead he saw Thomas, smile soft, brows slightly upturned, leaning down a bit to meet his eyes. “You alright there? You look like you’re going to be ill. Too much champagne?” Thomas guided Virgil to the chair the director never took and stole another from a nearby table, placing himself next to the young dancer.  


“Can I grab you water? Are you here with anyone?” Virgil shook his head and attempted to level his breathing. He just couldn’t understand why this man was being to kind to him after being so clearly insulted by some snot-nosed kid. He could feel Thomas’ gaze on him but couldn’t will himself to look up.  


He could hear the chair next to him creak with the shifting weight. Peeking out from under his hair he saw the man leaning back watching the crowd.  


“I always hated these competitions. It’s always about the wow-factor, the tricks. They talk about artistry, but no one ever looks natural or even happy for that matter. No one really wants to be up there. Heh, no one really wants to be _here_” Thomas took a steady swig from his glass and set it on the table. “Honestly, I only ever competed because my teachers expected me to. And I needed the scholarship money to keep training. It’s exhausting. So, yeah,” he laughed, “I guess I am too old to compete. Just listen to me! I sound like an old man.”  


A comfortable silence settled over them. Why this was comfortable he couldn’t pin-point. What was it about this guy?  


When the feeling finally returned to his fingertips he sat up and watched the ebb and flow of the ballroom. “Yeah,” he started, “I only came to this because my instructor wanted me to. I’m... I’m graduating this spring and I guess he just wants me to have a fighting chance.”  


“He sounds like a good teacher.”  


Virgil smiled and rolled his eyes, finally spotting Adley in the crowd. “I guess he is. He’s good to me anyway.”  


Thomas turned in his seat to face Virgil, features taking on a more serious tone. “That much is clear. He seems to have trained you well. Though,” he began, “what I saw up there wasn’t a dancer showing off every trick he’s got in one shot. I didn’t see a frantic grab for attention. I saw…” Thomas’ voice trailed off. “I saw emotion. And… a certain maturity that clearly goes beyond your years. You are technically strong, don’t get me wrong, and the polish will come with experience, but there’s another layer to your movement that I can’t quite put my finger on. You’re a bit of a question mark, but I like that.”  


The director waited a beat, catching Virgil’s eyes. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t do particularly well in a strictly classical troupe and I’m guessing by your absolute enthusiasm about this whole shebang here you agree.” Virgil thought on that and he wasn’t wrong. He never saw himself dancing big impressive ballets and he definitely could not see himself fitting into the stereotype of machismo male danseur. He never really fit in anywhere, which suited him fine up until now. He would find his niche eventually, but this world of traditional classical ballet wasn’t it.  


“Look, Mr. Harris, I’m not trying to sell you snake oil. I like what I see and I firmly believe you have a quality worth developing. And I’m curious to see what you become. Our company is not what you would call ‘traditional’. We’re always looking to explore new and, frankly, unusual ideas in dance. We don’t have to be stuck in the 1800’s staging the same three popular ballets to sell tickets. We’re not afraid to go against the grain and judging by your performance up there you’re not either. All I’m asking is that you give it some thought.”  


Thomas stood, brushing off his trousers. Reaching into his pocket he handed Virgil a simple white card with a yellow star logo on the back. “It was a pleasure to meet you Virgil Harris. Hopefully this won’t be our last encounter”. With that, Thomas turned on his heel and stepped back into the crowd.  


_What the actual fuck just happened._ He sat there, dumbstruck and not quite sure what to think next. Going against the grain? If anything, he was so afraid to go either direction that the grain was the least of his worries. Try to be unique and he risks getting rejected. Try to fit in and he’s miserable and will still get rejected. It seemed like a real lose/lose, but still…  


Virgil downed the last of his glass and shook his head. _Shit, he just offered you a job and you’re just sitting there like a moron. Say something, you idiot. Quick, before he changes his mind._  


“Mr. Sanders?! Hold up”.  


Virgil stumbled out of his chair, the champagne obviously having gone right to his head. Thomas turned back puzzled as he watched the little drunk fledgling scramble free of the chair. “I’m sorry for earlier. I, uh, I’m not great in social situations.” He took a deep breath before soldiering on. The job was his. All he had to do was ask.  


“Would it be possible to, uh um, you know… View rehearsals at some point? You know, _(stop saying ‘you know’)_ to get an idea of what you guys do?”  


Thomas took a step forward and held out his hand once more, unable to hide his excitement. “Come take company class over your spring break. I think you’ll find you feel right at home.”  


Virgil slid his hand into Thomas’ and shook. In one month he would travel to Florida and see it all for himself.


	2. Late Entrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Major character injury (broken bone), anxiety, touch aversion
> 
> This is a short chapter. I promise the pacing will pick up! Also, I won't be defining each dance step (there's a lot there), but if you have questions, let me know! See the end notes for a link to Virgil's solo variation danced by Roberto Bolle.

** _9 Years Later_ **  
** _July_ **

“Seven, eight, _AND_”

The air in the studio was stifled and tense. The sun beat through the windows, casting the dancers in a warm natural light and shadows under furrowed brows. Bodies moved in tandem, gliding through the space like a flock of birds. Their eyes hard and focused on the complex movement patterns carrying them over the floor to a complicated score they had only heard a time or two before. A couple with arms impossibly entwined took center stage in a slow, sensuous pas de deux that countered the rapid beating of feet and shifting of the bodies around them.

Through the door, eyes darting from dancer to dancer from behind large round glasses, the young, eager wardrobe assistant watched with a longing smile. His caramel curls bounced as his shoe tapped lightly to the rhythm. This was his favorite spot. Patton Fair made time for this every day.

Every afternoon, he would stand up from his work table, stretch his arms wide, and take a careful jog up a floor to the studios. Wrapping his aching fingers around the cool metal of the doorframe, Patton lets his worries fade to the back of his mind, willing the music and the heat of the room to overtake him. Ten minutes- that’s all he needed.

”Quick, step, turn, tombe, coupe, jete. _AND_, five, six, seven, eight. Terrance, Luisa, Marin, together please!”

This marked the second week of the new season and there was no time to lose. The first production goes on stage in October and the guest choreographer would be setting a premier work on the company the following week for the spring. Add their gala in November, Nutcracker in December, and a regional tour in February and suddenly the calendar shrunk down considerably.

Well, figuratively, of course.

Logan Croft, The Civic’s stern ballet master, was determined to stay the course. With his meticulous scheduling and unnervingly keen eye for details, Logan was certain they would have the first show cleaned, spaced, and ready for tech one week prior to their entering the theater. This was the plan and it was achievable with him leading the charge.

”You are falling behind. Pick up your pace!”, he barked over the music, clapping the syncopated rhythm for emphasis.

Unfortunately, like most best laid plans, there were going to be problems.

While the studio was appropriately air conditioned to counter the blistering heat of the summer, there was no denying the rising temperature of the room. His dancers were losing speed and precision. And some were letting their discomfort show plainly on their faces. He was losing them fast.

The music took a sudden rise in tempo, and the dancers followed suit. Logan’s hands were rapidly turning red from clapping harder and faster. “One, TWO, three, AND, four, _AND_. Step, step, temp leve, coupe, shift!”

He stepped quickly across the front of the studio, watching closely as the group pushed through the frantic choreography. Logan’s eyes scanned the space and caught an error. A late entrance by a mere half a beat, but it was enough to snatch his attention. He had been so focused on the precision of the feet that he almost couldn’t tell who had made the blunder.

But the black ankle brace was a dead giveaway.

Logan’s watchful eyes found the dancer’s face and gave a frustrated sigh. Virgil was never good at masking his pain, but he sure as hell will power through it. For that, Logan respected him, but he knew that he would have to remind the dancer _once again_ that pushing too hard will only result in reaggravating the injury that put him in that brace in the first place. This was a tired refrain and he did not look forward to discussing it again. So it will have to wait.

The ballet master took a step back and noticed that Virgil’s tardy start was only the first in a cascade of problems. Formations were quickly losing hold and steps were becoming muddy and unfocused. He pinched the bridge of his nose and paused the music.

”Enough! Stop, stop”, Logan yelled, deflating as he spoke. “What did I just watch? Honestly.” That last remark was more to himself, but there was no doubt that everyone heard it. The dancers shifted on their feet, sweat dripping down tired faces and chests fighting to suck in as much oxygen in that muggy studio as they could manage.

A principal dancer, a man by the name of Roman Price, straightened and rubbed at his shoulder, watching Logan but not quite listening. Tall, tan, and handsome, he had the looks of a leading man that sold seats and stole hearts. Popular with the patrons and a power house on stage, it was no wonder he rose through the ranks the way he did. Where his charm stopped, his sheer determination began. Just by watching him dance, even for a moment, he seems utterly tireless.

Except for today.

There Roman stood, center of the studio, lungs burning and muscles fatigued, surrounded by exhausted comrades all taking an equal share of the increasingly frustrated list of corrections being lobbed their way. His attention continued to fade as his gaze wandered aimlessly around the room until it fell on Virgil’s pinched expression. Hands gripping his hips, breathing heavily, he was rolling his braced ankle, wincing with each stilted rotation. Roman could practically feel each sharp jab of pain from across the room. 

”Roman, Katya,'' Logan continued, evening out his tone, “Your timing was off by a quarter of a beat. Virgil, your entrance was late by a half beat and the petit allegro sequence was sloppy. Corps, your lines were clearly eskew. Please remain aware of your spacing.” Taking a breath, he was met with limp nods of understanding and hushed, heavy breathing. He looked down at his watch with resignation. “Yes, well, that was a good effort. Please take ten minutes to regroup. Thomas will be coming in to observe in approximately twenty minutes and further cleaning is necessary before then.”

With that, the dancers dissipated from the group and ambled to the sides of the studio, grabbing at water bottles and towels and talking amongst themselves. Roman moved to make his way towards Virgil only to be stopped by a delicate hand resting on his shoulder. “Rom~aaan”, sang Katya, “let’s go over that lift again. It’s just so tricky! I can’t seem to get my feet under myself- Roman? Are you listening? Helloooo?”

”Hm?”” Roman turned to meet Katya’s expectant stare. A tightly wound perfectionist to the end and she never seemed to tire. In fact, she hardly seemed fazed by that last run. “Oh, yeah, that lift’s a beast, which we will certainly conquer, but uh…” Roman’s head drifted back in Virgil’s direction. By then, he had his head buried in the crooks of his arms, leaning into the barre as if asleep on his feet. Foot- the braced one was floating a few inches above the floor.

”Fine, go tend to your pet cat,'' she sighed with a knowing smile. Katya reached up and pinched his cheek with a pursed little pout before turning on her heel and strutting over to her bag. Roman rubbed at his cheek. He has partnered with Katya for years and that was her delightful little act of endearment. If her nails weren’t always so sharp, it would almost be cute. But he could tolerate it. What he couldn’t stand was her habit of calling Virgil his pet, but after years of stubbornly correcting her, Katya let it stick for the long run. At the very least, it didn’t seem to bother Virgil. Though, Roman often thought, he didn’t really seem to even notice.

********************************

Virgil pressed his sweat coated bangs off of his forehead and back into his hair before dropping his whole head into the cradle of his arms resting on the barre overlooking the street below. Standing there he rested his weight into the barre, letting his throbbing foot float inches above the floor. He was still breathing heavily, struggling to catch his breath.

_Weak. You’re still too weak_

This was only the second week Virgil had returned to dancing full force since the surgery nine months prior. A month before that he had finally received a promotion that was, frankly, a long time coming. Years of fighting his own demons and shortcomings, he finally found himself in the upper ranks. Of course, the universe, as it does, had other plans for his debut as soloist. His first night performing in a leading role and…

** _Nine months ago_ **  
** _La Bayadere- Night Two_ **** **

The stage was awash with warm light from every angle, arabesque set pieces adorning the space in lucious decadence. Dancers sat along the edges, backs straight, arms held, and focus absolutely rapt by the soloist taking center stage. A woman dressed in weightless chiffon harem pants and finely beaded bodice stepped with sensual grace in her entrancing solo.

** **** **

It was broiling under layers of Virgil’s stiff black and gold brocade costume cinched tight around the waist, leaving little room for deep breathing. He could feel a bead of sweat trail down his back as he watched his partner perform the final pristine fouettes of her solo variation. He stood poised, one hand resting unnaturally sharp on his hip and the other gesturing theatrically toward his partner as she bowed.

** **** **

In a traditional pas de deux, the two dancers impress with a playful series of turns and lifts before the man steps aside allowing the woman to perform her intricate variation of lithe balances and graceful turns. La Bayadere calls for a far more exotic and “mature” energy. It required touch; delicate yet purposeful grazing of bare skin, desire and heat. Virgil could tolerate necessary contact- weight bearing necessary to execute the movement, but this? This was too much.

** **** **

_It should be Roman up here,_ he thought over and over again. Virgil didn’t want this leading role. Roman’s “Solor” was far more convincing and emotionally moving. Solor was a fearless warrior and Roman could bring life to the character in a way few others could. The audience loved him. But Thomas was insistent. His director was convinced that such a powerful role, one that requires a good bit of machismo energy and skin to skin contact, would be good for the young dancer. Roman, his opposite in the role, spent months working with poor Virge to get his “persona” polished to a high shine. The touch, however, remained a problem throughout the rehearsal process.

** **** **

His aversion to touch was problematic in the beginning of his time with the Civic Ballet, but over time he trained himself to accept it as the necessary evil that it was. If he wanted to keep his job, he had to grit his teeth and bear it. But this was just too far over his threshold. Too much skin, too much lingering. Too much.

** **** **

Luckily for him, Roman took opening night when expectations were high and tension higher. High-tier patrons and industry professionals took to their seats eager to see and be seen. Night two, however, meant the bar was not so impossibly high and Virgil could almost breathe.

** **** **

He stood under the lights, sweat pricking at his eyes, watching and waiting. His partner gave her bows and in mere moments he would take the stage with “panache and gusto” as Roman had put it. Virgil hated this part. He hated the wait. To him dancing was about pure luck. His technique was strong and consistent, sure, but the voice in his head told him show after show each successful run was only a fluke. That this would be the night he would fall. Or drop his partner. Or a light would come loose from the catwalk and land on him. Or or or. The imaginary scenarios only became more ludicrous the more anxious he became. Luckily the voice was always wrong. Until…

** **** **

Music paused, applause dying down. A beat of silence. And.

** **** **

A strong entrance. Step, renverse, step cabriole battu, step, grand jete.

** **** **

_Good. Keep going._

** **** **

The music swelled. The audience held its collective breath as he pushed off into a series of fouettes a la seconde. One, two, three double, four, five, six double into a retire.

** **** **

_Breathe. Almost there. You’ve got this._

** **** **

A quick hustle to the downstage corner for one more sequence of travelling jumps and he was free until the coda. He would rejoin his partner, bow, and run off stage until the next scene. He was fifteen seconds away from freedom.

** **** **

Virgil took in one last breath, staring down past the wings on the opposite side of the stage, eyes trained Roman’s who was standing backstage with a proud grin. The voice in his head was eerily quiet. He plastered a confident smile on his face and shifted his weight back ever so slightly. _Seven, eight. GO._

** **** **

The moments that followed were a blur of light, sound, and hands. So many hands. From what he heard later, he made it halfway across the stage before he went down, but everything leading up to that point had been impressively flawless, even for him.

** **** **

He did remember that landing. That moment when foot met, and ultimately missed, the floor. The snap of a bone around his ankle like a brittle twig. The blinding pain.

** **** **

Virgil even remembered the audible gasps and a league of bodies rushing to his aid. The artistic director scrambling onto the stage from the front row. The face Thomas made at the grotesque angle of his foot. Roman brushing his cheek mouthing words he couldn’t hear. The haze in his head. And the pain.

** **** **

It was his first night on stage for the season and would be his last for nearly a year.

** **** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary of terms:******  
_La Bayadere_\- A classical era ballet by Marius Petipa (Russia, 1877). It is a story of love between a temple dancer, Nikiya, and a warrior, Solor, complete with murder plots and a healthy doze of opium.  
_Ballet Master_\- A kind of rehearsal director/coach who ensures the quality of technique and artistry in rehearsals.  
_Pas de deux_\- (French- “Dance for two”) A duet that often includes physically challenging lifts. In classical ballets, this includes one short duet, two solo dances, and a “coda” dance when the dancers rejoin.
> 
> ****  
**Video Reference:**  
_Solor’s Variation- La Bayadere_: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHbkesexAXY  


**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of terms:  
Prix de Lausanne- An annual international youth ballet competition in Lausanne, Switzerland for pre-professional dancers ages 15-18.  
Variation- A short dance interlude common in classical ballets.  
Grande Jete- (French) Large Throw- A “split leg” travelling jump that carries the dancer across the floor.  
Wings- Large fabric panels dividing on and off-stage.
> 
> Video References:  
La Bayadere Shades Variation- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8INJnPDzy4  
Les Sylphides Poet’s Dance- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl0FIXUFTvM


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